Soft Shock
by Giggles96
Summary: Wherein Mike is secretive and Harvey is forced to get creative. Companion piece to Seriously and Family Tree. Can be read as a stand-alone. Shameless fluff. One-shot.


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 **Soft Shock**

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 **Summary:** Wherein Mike is secretive and Harvey is forced to get creative. One-shot. Companion piece to Seriously and Family Tree. Can be read as a stand-alone.

 **A/N:** Everyone may thank Stargate6525 for this one, without whom this would never have existed. She asked for more in this series, and who was I to say no? This is mostly shameless fluff, because I think we all need some right now with everything's going on in season 5. Enjoy. Also, little reminder, all of my stories centre around season one, so there shouldn't be any spoilers.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Inside the senior partner's office it is cautious and still.

Pen scratches crisp paper, red underscoring neat black print, while green swiftly loops around key words and trims the excess with impatient strikes through heavy blocks of text.

Blotchy ink and skewed lines and tired eyes as Harvey Specter tweaks his young associate's documents on his behalf and makes small amendments.

He squints in the dull light, straining to differentiate between C and O, and E and A, and limits his motions as best he can, with his hand only roaming so far across the paper before wisely retreating again. His neck is stiff and there is the dullest twinge in his lower back, but Harvey is unable to alleviate the discomfort. If he rolls his shoulder or shifts even slightly, he risks jostling the sickly young man lounging across his lap and worsening _his_ discomfort.

A spongy cushion has been wedged under his head, but Mike ignores this in favour of nuzzling closer to the other male's abdomen and making the softest humming noises, which Harvey takes to be a good sign. Humming equals contentment. Moaning indicates, well…the opposite. And is usually accompanied by a tide of snot and tears and pitiful sniffling.

Mike kneads Harvey's shirt in one hand and snuffles.

"Mmm," he mumbles, "S'warm."

"Good warm or bad warm?" Harvey asks as he lightly pets his hair and glides a thumb across his cheek in an unconscious effort to purge his heated skin of tears. He refrains from placing a hand on his forehead for a more accurate reading, though he's sorely tempted. Sometimes Mike's temperature will run a few degrees higher than normal, but it's rare. Only in the most extreme cases, and as far as the pup's migraines go, this one is blissfully mild.

Tugging on the end of the senior partner's silver tie and coiling it around his closed fist, he burrows deeper into the protective warmth, shielded from the harsh glare of sunlight suddenly streaming in from the window, and mulls it over. "Good…I think."

He almost smiles. "Well, alright then."

Away from Donna's smug smirk and secure in the privacy of his own mind - where he is all-too-aware of his own mushy, and growing mushier, centre, and party to his fair share of secret cooing - Harvey has thawed enough to admit that the kid is ridiculously cute when he's all wretched and hurting like this.

It never fails to amaze him how _small_ Mike becomes on the days when his head gets the sudden urge to twist itself into a jumbled, blistering snarl and fuck everything up. He completely shuts down.

Which is understandable, he supposes, considering the teeming crowd of information it picks up on a daily basis.

In these moments, Mike is at his most sensitive, with a brain that feels like it has been speared by two dozen nails and an unsettled stomach that is liable to detonate at any given moment. He groans at each microscopic movement, shies away from every source of light, cries at the increase in pressure as his skull seems to crack under the force of the throbbing, and then cries some more.

Ever since that first horrific migraine - or the first that Harvey knows of, at any rate - they have agreed that Harvey will go easy on the kid when he's not feeling well, and in turn, Mike has to actually _tell_ him he's not feeling well. After that, depending on how bad it is, he will either send Mike home to rest or let him chill in his office for however many hours to wait it out.

It is an arrangement that has served them well, and they've grown all the closer because of it. Harvey tries to be supportive as much as he can, and in return, Mike grants him access to himself at his worst. He trusts his boss to make the right call and help him out when he needs it most, which is more than he can say for anyone else in his life. Harvey…he's different. He's dependable.

He's the guy you tell.

"How are you feeling?" Harvey's voice is gentle as he strokes his fluffy tuffs of hair.

"Tired," Mike mutters, "Sore."

In response, Harvey begins delicately massaging the back portion of his neck, right down to the nape. Apparently, it allows more blood to flow to the back of the head and can stop a migraine in its tracks. Sounds to him like a load of bullshit, but it's worth a try, right?

"This helping any?"

Mike blinks like a sleepy puppy and stifles a yawn. "Mnnuh."

Lips curving at one corner, Harvey affectionately squeezes his neck and chuckles softly. "I'll take that as a yes."

But here's the thing about laughter. Even subdued, it rouses your entire, upper frame and bounces off your diaphragm - unleashing ripples of delight that surge across every inch of skin. Laughter _shakes_. However much you try to contain it, it shudders and swells and _shares_ even when others aren't quite so receptive in the least.

Mike's head rocks - almost imperceptibly - and he violently flinches.

" _Ugghhhhh_." His groan sounds as pained as it painful to hear.

Controlling a wince of his own, Harvey rubs his tender forehead as if trying to smooth away his aggrieved frown and murmurs, "Sorry, kid." He keeps his voice on its lowest register, as to not upset him any further.

"S'not your fault."

He's inclined to disagree, but instead, Harvey gives him another minute to relax fully, before suggesting, "Perhaps you should try and eat something."

Mike's brows crinkle, bunching under his relaxing fingers. "Uh…I'm not so sure that's a good idea." On instinct, his hands travel down to his stomach and hover above it cautiously, afraid to even touch in case it sets off another round of nausea. Harvey notices this and trades Mike's tentative hands with his own, rubbing the pup's tummy gently and with care.

He could become a fully-qualified masseur at this rate. With all the experience the kid has been providing lately.

"Your blood sugar's gotta be low," Harvey points out, still in the midst of his soothing treatment, "That's not going to help matters."

Mike gives a muffled whine as the senior partner presses a little too hard, before immediately backing off, focusing all of his energy on loosening the tense muscles rather than tightening them in unnecessary, added stress.

"Ask me again in an hour," the boy recommends almost fuzzily, blue eye's half-lidded and unfocused, "Then I'll see how it goes down." The muted tones and cosy heat has made him drowsy and he's started attempting to bury himself in Harvey's shirt again.

He smirks. "I'll hold you to that."

A touch of lethargic amusement enters his expression and Mike smirks back. "I know you will." At this point, the associate no longer has reason to crow _, 'Ha ha! You care! You totally care!'_ after his boss comes to the rescue in dicey situations _._ It occurs too often to be much of a novelty anymore. Yet, although the teasing may have become redundant, the sentiment still remains, as fiercely as ever.

Harvey rolls his eyes.

Stupid kid.

But he doesn't utter a single word of protest when Mike's eyelids sink to half-mast and quiet snores float up to his ears and he's left with a lap full of twitching, drooling associate and all of said associate's grunt work.

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An hour later and a nosy junior partner has caught wind of the strange goings-on.

"Donna," he pipes up, eyes narrowed like a sniffer-dog on the hunt, much too curious - and self-seeking - for his own good. Just wait until Jessica gets a load of this. And that heartless reputation Harvey so values? Down the toilet with one little snap.

First, the disastrous meeting with Mr. Sanders, then the family picnic and now _this_. This is just too good.

"Why are Harvey and Mike-?"

"Don't."

"Donna," he lets out a tittering laugh, "Surely you see what I'm seeing-"

"I do and I don't care. And as far as I'm concerned, neither should you."

"But _Donna,"_ his voice nears an unflattering whine, "Come on. I mean, they're practically _snuggling_."

"I mean it, Louis." The scary red-head glances up from her computer with a brutal glare that by all rights should have sent him scurrying away before he could think twice. "Drop it."

"Alright, alright." He is smart enough to know when to yield. "Consider it dropped."

But Donna's not done yet.

"Oh, and before you go running off that imprudent little mouth of yours, just remember the _sheer amount_ of sensational little nuggets you have of your own. I would hate to have to even the score and tell Harvey about that time in M-"

"Okay, okay!" he cuts in quickly, "I get it."

She smiles and it is a lethal smile of too many teeth, glittering on display like a stark, sealed promise. Her large eyes are blunt and savage. But her voice is awfully soft.

"So…Do we understand each other?"

Louis gulps.

"Y-yeah," he stutters, "I think w-we do."

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It's on an insignificant Thursday that Mike falls asleep at his desk.

There are no big cases on the go, no appearances at court to fret over, absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.

But, as Harvey soon begins to notice, there doesn't have to be anything necessarily _going on_ at work for Mike to come in looking like he was fished out of the river that morning.

He'd jolted upright, nervously glanced around, and when he spied Harvey staring squarely in his direction, Mike seemed to sag inwards like a sad, remorseful puppy with his tails between his legs, as if waiting for a stern scolding. But Harvey had said nothing. He'd continued as if it meant nothing - a small lapse in an otherwise spotless record - because it must _be_ nothing, if Mike hasn't come to him about it.

Yet the weeks drag on and, still, Mike stumbles in late exuding an aura of exhaustion, complete with tell-tale, puffy eyes that are constantly on the verge of watering, pallid skin layered by dark and ever-darkening circles, and this faintly vacant expression.

And still, neither man says anything.

Harvey can feel his anger budding.

He snaps at the kid and the kid snaps back. They aren't getting anywhere anytime soon.

Every once in a while, Mike will drift off at his cubicle and Harvey will clamp his jaw so hard he's surprised his teeth don't fissure, because it's taking everything in his power not to tear him a new one.

It's obvious that Mike has no intention of filling Harvey in, and it's while he's sitting there, suppressing his reluctant hurt and disappointment and chugging down scotch while listening to what Donna refers to as his 'sulking' records, that it occurs to him that maybe the younger man has been waiting for Harvey in the same way that Harvey's been waiting for him.

He realises he has to do something.

But it will require a little harmless manipulation on his part.

"Maybe you should go lie down for a bit," Harvey nonchalantly hints one day while they are debriefing each other on what intel they've gathered so far on a high-profile case and he catches Mike in the act, yawning into his fist. "My couch is free, if you want to use it."

The puzzled associate glances over at the couch in thinly-veiled disdain and scoffs, "Uh, yeah. No, thanks. I think I'll pass."

"Mike," he harvests some of his disapproval from within and lets it bleed into his tone, "You know if don't sleep well, your chances of sparking another migraine are drastically increased." This is actually true, and it is one of Harvey's greater worries.

There are certain triggers which he knows Mike needs to avoid, and by the looks of it, he's not doing an excellent job. Honestly, Harvey's amazed that he's functioning half as well as he is.

"H-Harvey," Mike splutters, completely incredulous, "You can't be serious. Are you honestly suggesting I take a _nap_ in your office?"

He shrugs. Blasé. Utterly blasé. Look like you couldn't care less about the outcome at all. "You look like you could use one."

"Don't be ridiculous." He's defensive now - yanking on the lapels of his jacket and tugging them closer like they're some standard symbol of maturity - and that's good. It means his guard is up. He won't expect it next time. "I'm fine."

The quick-tempered reaction doesn't come as a shock. In fact, he was banking on it. Harvey didn't expect Mike to take his suggestion seriously right off the bat. Sure…he'd _hoped_. As far-fetched a possibility as it may be, there was a niggling part of him that wanted Mike to agree. But it was a fantasy, purely wishful thinking. He didn't believe he would really go for it.

"Okay," Harvey surrenders, making a point to sound as though _Mike_ is the difficult one, not him, "No need to get snappy."

"I am _not_ -" Mike breaks off, exhaling sharply. His voice is thick with frustration, jaw clenching with an audible snap.

Harvey turns away to hide a smirk.

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A couple days after the horrible incident where his boss got a little too obliging for his liking - even offering up his _own couch_ for him to fritter away the rest of his day - Mike is shattered from another restless night and more than a tad peevish when Harvey calls for him at noon.

He is in no frame of mind to argue with the older man and far too touchy to joke around either. He is _not_ in a sociable mood, period.

Upon reflection, Mike realises Harvey must have been teasing when he proposed Mike take a nap (and he'd never actually _used_ the word nap, had he? That was Mike. Outraged, embarrassed, and filling in the blanks. His boss isn't to blame for that turn of phrase any more than he is for accidentally provoking him), and he feels foolish for having assumed otherwise. There's no way he actually meant it. If he did, he would never have accepted defeat with such haste; he would have pushed and persuaded in that 'gentle' manner he has in equal measure until he eventually he wore Mike down enough to get what he wanted and consider it a win-win.

Harvey must have noticed his bout of insomnia, chalked it up to Mike's poor decision making, prioritising something stupid over sleep, and decided to make light of it in an understated means so that Mike would clean up his act. And truth is, he can't actually remember _exactly_ how that conversation went down, only the general gist of it, what with his memory being so sucky lately. Or maybe it's not even his memory, but his concentration. He may have simply opted out midway through. It's happened before.

"Here," Harvey greets as Mike throws himself down on the couch - that damn, too-comfortable couch - in an ungainly assemble of loose limbs and knocking knees, and rubs his hazy eyes. He is so, so extraordinarily tired. "I need you to take a look at these. See if we missed anything."

Mike gives a small _oof_ as the older man dumps a fat stack of briefs on his lap. He coughs, whacks his chest, and peeps down at the pile.

Mike frowns, a little confused.

Aren't these the Scavo briefs? Are they _really_ a priority right now?

He glances up into Harvey's expectant face.

"Um…sure," he agrees. But fuck, if inside he isn't groaning. This is going to be. So. Damn. _Boring_.

He fumbles for one of his beloved highlighters, only to come up short. He twists around to search behind him and pats his pockets, all to no avail.

"Looking for this?"

And there, sunny and bright and jutting out of Harvey's right hand, is his the object of his aggravation. He breathes a sigh of relief and slaps on a feeble smile. "Yes, thank you. Sorry, my mind's all over the place."

"Must be," Harvey chuckles and flings the highlighter at him with far too enjoyment loitering around on his features.

"Thanks," he says again, for the sake of politeness.

"Yeah, yeah. Get to work, will you? Oh, and try not to fall asleep again, 'kay?" his boss appeals with unreserved condescension, his smile mocking, "I'd hate to have to throw a bunch of those suckers at your head to get you to wake up."

His cavalier attitude only confirms Mike's earlier suspicions: He _was_ reading into things too much the other day, likely cooking up a storm of indignation for the sole purpose of justifying his foul mood. Why would Harvey _want_ him to snooze during his work hours, anyway? He'd want him to be productive, wouldn't he?

Nevermind that in order to be nearly as valuable an employee as he's positive he could be ( _should_ be), Mike would have to be _much_ better rested first.

Mike pulls together another half-assed smile. "Won't be a problem," he assures tightly - willing it to be true.

But Harvey only nods pleasantly and says, "I'm sure it won't."

However, as Mike knuckles down, hunching over and flipping open the chunky file, and a loath sigh escapes at the thought of the forthcoming, _mind-numbing_ hours, Harvey's lips unfurl in a small, mysterious smile, and they retain a tint of something like an inside joke as he trades an amused glance with Donna, who appears to be watching him _way_ too intently.

But Mike shakes off their peculiar behaviour, sure he's blowing it way out of proportion again, making connections that don't in fact exist.

Maybe they made a bet he couldn't finish. Maybe she's waiting for Harvey to wrap up their idle chit-chat so they can go grab lunch together. What does it matter?

Easy.

 _It doesn't._

Yet, as Mike's eyes grow heavier and heavier and his grip loosens and the brief slips from his grasp or is tugged away, whichever, and a blanket is draped around his shoulders and his head finds itself supported by the snug planes of a familiar chest, and Mike wakes up disorientated hours later with Harvey's fingers absentmindedly carding through his hair, suddenly it matters a whole damn lot.

A melodious record quietly spins in the background and his mouth tastes of confusion and faded coffee, and Harvey simply glances down at his baffled expression and shrugs, not the least bit apologetic.

"Did you just…" he croaks, trailing off because _what the actual shit_. Then he shakes his head and tries again, "Did you seriously-?"

But he's speechless. He's got nothing.

"Trick you into taking a nap?" Harvey supplies, setting his laptop aside.

Feeling only semi-present, Mike sits up and clears the gunk from his eyes, glaring at his boss like a rattled puppy angry at his own hiccups for rousing him from his lunchtime snooze.

"Yes," Harvey smirks, voice laced with self-satisfaction, "I believe I did."

Son of a bitch.

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After that, Mike avoids Harvey's office in every way he can - and, therefore, the man himself - through sticky notes pasted onto _his glass door_ containing scribbled updates about cases and helpful tips, like instructions on how to unlock the next stage in a tricky video game, with files magically appearing on his desk bearing more memos with goddamn crooked smiley faces - as if _that's_ an adequate substitute for Mike's goofy smile or the way he bounces in place like a damn rubber ball while rattling off his discoveries.

He hates how endearing he finds the boy's methods of evasion.

But Harvey's not about to volunteer for another game of cat and mouse.

He'd like to say he regretted his successful ploy, but he doesn't. One, because yes, it _was_ a success, and two, because no-one could deny how refreshed and full of life Mike had been afterwards. That little deception kept him operating at his natural, jittery-two-year-old-on-crack level for another two days. He could a ton of shit done.

So, should Harvey feel guilty?

In a nutshell, maybe. The kid was pretty pissed.

In reality?

Not even a little bit.

Maybe he _would_ if it hadn't worked. If he had stayed up all night working on those pesky briefs they won't need urgently for another three weeks. If Mike hadn't glowered at him afterwards with the most adorable petulant puppy eyes and huffed like a little boy forced into an early bedtime. And those analogies right there show just how seriously he's _not_ taking this. Or taking the fallout, in any event.

The crux of the problem, it would seem, is that Harvey had trusted Mike to confide in him and he hadn't, while Mike trusts Harvey to bail him outta trouble, but he didn't appreciate how he chose to go about it.

Plus, he still likes to fixate on Harvey's 'leave your personal problems at the door' policy, despite the senior partner proving time and time again how little it applies to him. And although most of his rescues, sure, involve work-related issues, the sample of individuals in his life that Harvey has _willingly_ engaged in such kind and considerate situations with is critically small.

Even his personal endeavours in the bedroom aren't nearly as intimate as Harvey and Mike are with each other on Migraine Days.

They have each other's backs. He would trust Mike to do the same for him if he was puking his guts up in the downstairs bathroom. As a matter of fact, he'd be the first person he'd call (after Donna, of course, though she'd only confirm that she already knew).

He thought the pup knew that.

Though…perhaps that's it. Mike depends on him for the migraine stuff because it's a physical condition and he has very little say in how it goes down. Maybe he'd let Louis do the same thi- Nope. Even he knows how improbable that is. But maybe…maybe Mike would be open to a lot more people that he could depend on to come to his aid, than Harvey ever would. Maybe, strangely, it's not as personal with him.

Or _maybe_ he's being ridiculous and overanalysing the whole thing.

Mike's sorry state of affairs has gotten under his skin in ways that make him feel prickly and weird, and he's been doubting himself far more often than he has in years. Questioning his stupid, goddamn role in the kid's life like it means more than he would ever care to admit.

For that reason alone, Harvey has to get to the bottom of this. Too much self-reflection makes him nauseous.

So he hatches another plan. Another sneaky scheme. With the added risk that Mike's already on to him.

One morning when he strolls in to his office and comes across another too-bright yellow note that hurts his eyes in a way that has nothing to do with the colour, instead of crumpling it up and tossing it away like he normally would (like he normally _should_ , but doesn't because they have important facts scrawled on them and he might need that information and it has absolutely nothing to do with missing the pup, nope, no way), Harvey pockets it and marches down to the associates' bullpen.

He drapes himself over the binder and rips out a quietly buzzing ear-bud, shoving the messy note into Mike's taken aback face.

"What's this?"

Mike starts, squinting at the note in bewilderment. "Uh…a cheery smiley...face?" he answers uncertainly. "Emphasis on the cheery."

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Not that, idiot. The other thing."

"Um," he rakes his fingers roughly across his neck, "It's inside info on Newman's history with Mrs. O'Conner. Squeezed it out of her green-eyed cousin after a few tequilas."

"You didn't think to tell me he was sleeping with his previous secretary?"

"That's what the note's for…" Mike is beyond confused by Harvey's seemingly groundless annoyance, "Besides, she all but spits at the sound of his name."

"Yes…," Harvey replies slowly, "And it didn't at any point occur to you that we could use that to our advantage?"

"Oh. _Right_." He blinks. Damn kid is unbelievably sleep-deprived. "Okay, then. Erm," he starts scrambling, trying and failing to juggle his things in his arms, "Then I guess I have a bitter middle-aged woman to pay a visit-"

"No, no," Harvey butts in impatiently, "You're coming with me."

Jerking backwards in surprise, Mike exclaims, "What? Why? Didn't you _just_ say we could use this? You're right, she might be willing to talk if I can win her over. Maybe I'll get the full story out of her. She could be the weak link in his steely line of defence."

"I'm not disputing any of that. All I said was that _you_ will be joining _me_."

Mike's brows cluster together in an all-out dark scowl. "Since when did you need me for the settlement talks?" he demands, "I thought you had it all figured out."

Harvey cockily smirks. "I do."

"Then, why…?" He stops, shaking his head as if to gather his thoughts. "Harvey, you know I'll be of more use persuading Mrs O'Conner to testify."

The older man shrugs. "I'll send someone else."

By this point, Mike is at a total loss for words. "Send someone else…?" he repeats blankly, mouth agape, bloodshot eyes pinching. "Harvey, you're not making any sense."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to question me? If I want you there for this meeting, then you're goddamn going to this meeting. I don't have to explain myself."

Mike seems to recognise that he's hit upon a sore spot and hurriedly placates, "Alright, alright." He rubs his brow. "I'll go."

"Wonderful," Harvey smiles widely, bitingly patronising, "I'll have Donna call Louis. We'll need him on board."

"You're _asking_ Louis for help?" Mike blurts before he can stop himself. " _What_ is going _on_ with you?"

"What did I say?"

"Sorry," he mumbles, unrepentant, "I just… _Louis_?"

"Yes," Harvey says firmly, "And if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with your goddamn supervisor. Oh, no - wait." He pauses, snapping his fingers, "That's me."

"Don't forget Louis," Mike kindly reminds him, "He's in charge of the associ-"

"Digging a deeper hole here."

The associate snaps his mouth shut. "I'll be quiet now," he promises, voice hushed.

"That's what I like to hear," he grins brightly, then before striding away, orders in irritation, "Now go freakin' eat something and meet me out front in twenty. And for Christ's sake, put on a goddamn jacket. It's freezing out."

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In fear of incurring Harvey's wrath, Mike scoffs down a bagel outside in the cold and then downs a redbull to keep himself alert while he waits for his boss to materialize. He crushes the can and lobs it in the trash before the other man catches him with it, and thrusts his hands into his pockets, taming a forceful shiver.

Harvey was right. It's freakin' freezing.

"You been out here long?" a voice queries from behind and he wheels around to see Harvey come into view, eyeing him critically.

"About five minutes."

"Well, you look terrible."

"Thank you," he remarks dully, "I needed that."

They slide into Ray's limo and Mike almost moans at the heavenly heat fanning out from the air conditioner. If it stays like this, he might be able to move his fingers again before they reach the other side of town where the rival firm is located.

"So," Mike says conversationally after several moments, tapping his foot briskly, "Do you think Arthur's lawyer's gonna go for it?"

"Yeah, I don't care about that," Harvey replies bluntly, brushing off the other man's curiosity and indulging in his own. "However," his gaze turns incisive, too intuitive, too invasive in this close proximity, "I _am_ very interested in this stumbling in every morning looking impossibly worse than the day before thing you have going on. Anything I should know about?"

The associate stiffens.

Exasperation rising, Mike challenges, "Is that why you brought me here?"

Of course, he had an ulterior motive. _Of course._

"Answer the question."

He grits his teeth. "Not until you answer mine."

Having long ago learned not to underestimate the stubborn gleam in the younger man's eyes, Harvey rolls his eyes and confesses, "Fine. Yes. I thought if I lured you away from the firm, you might be more inclined to talk."

He expected to feel furious, deceived, but faced with his boss' begrudging honesty and faintly concerned features, Mike is strangely warmed.

"I feel so special," he declares, yearning to tease rather than bite his head off, "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Harvey repeats dully, "So talk."

But the problem with feeling touched and smiling with affection instead of getting angry is that it lowers your defences, and Mike is abruptly brought back down to earth with a thump when he recalls that, Harvey's worry aside, there's still that small matter of providing the answers he seeks.

Eyes glued to his lap, Mike twists his fingers and mumbles, "It's stupid."

"Most of the things you say are." His answering tone is gentle, but the words are glaringly, humorously un-sugar-coated. "But you don't hear me complaining."

"Is that your tactic?" he asks, glancing up in disbelief, "Insult me 'til I dish the dirt?"

"Pretty much," Harvey confirms with an unabashed half-shrug. "Now spill it, bonehead."

"Alright," he sighs, "But it's not nearly as juicy as you seem to think it is." Mike pauses, half-hoping Harvey will throw up his hands and announce, _'Sounds boring. Count me out,'_ but he only continues to stare back patiently, encouraging him to go on.

"So, ah…there are these tenants in my apartment building. Directly upstairs from mine. They fight, like, _all_ the time. It didn't use to be so bad, but the guy keeps accusing the girl about cheating on him and jeez, the walls are practically paper thin. The whole neighbourhood fricking overhears. With those two bozos, I don't have a hope of catching a decent night's sleep."

"So what're you planning to do about it?" his boss poses inquisitively.

Mike shrugs. "Nothing, I guess."

Harvey's frown is suddenly totally, utterly severe, resembling that of a frustrated father.

It brings Mike back to that day at Central Park, when his boss' voice was full of pride as he spoke to Mr. Sanders about Mike's big brain of pointless information, unashamedly boastful as he tousled his hair and threw an arm around his thin shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. He remembers how nice it was, how much fun they had with their ruse. How their relationship has never been the same since.

No longer do they share a comfortable, laid-back friendship filled with good-natured back and forth and quotes galore. It's… _more_ than that now.

Harvey is supportive and protective and has taken to watching over him daily, and Mike realises belatedly what an idiot he's been to keep the other man in the dark. Sure, _he_ hadn't thought any of this stuff was a big deal. Certainly not worthy enough to go whinging to his boss about.

But Harvey didn't share in that knowledge. No wonder he's been forced to be so coy. He probably thought Mike was keeping it from him on purpose because it mattered _too_ much. Like he didn't want to rely on him, let him in. How ironic is that?

"I'd like to think I've taught you better than that," the older man tsks, yanking him from his musings.

"Harvey, there's no point kicking up a fuss," he explains, a little helplessly. He realises he doesn't _want_ to let him down. "They haven't paid rent in over three months. They're about two weeks away from eviction."

He arches a brow. "You're counting on that?"

"Our landlord's a douche," Mike states matter-of-factly, "No second chances."

Harvey purses his lips and appears thoughtful for a minute, before giving a sudden groan.

"Ugh," he moans, "I know I'm going to regret this, but...would you like to crash at my place for a bit?" His voice is carefully gracious, tightened ever so slightly. Like an annoyed waiter forced to be nice to rude customers as he takes their order. But Mike doesn't take it personally. Harvey's like that with everyone, whether he genuinely wants to help or not.

He waves a hand towards his rumpled suit and the harsh bags under his eyes, and adds, "I can't have you working like this."

Mike licks his lips, cautious, "You don't mind?"

"Not in this context. Later, when I tell Donna, I'll sound distinctly less pleasant about the arrangement."

"Wow," he breathes, lipjerking upwards in a grateful smile, "Thanks, Harvey."

"Don't mention it," he deflects, before tacking on with a somewhat threatening glare, "Seriously, _don_ _'t_ mention it. To anyone."

Smothering a laugh, Mike is flat-out beaming now. "I won't," he swears.

"Good," Harvey hums, mollified.

Then they arrive and the subject is dropped and not resumed until long after their meeting when Harvey pokes his shoulder and Mike jerks awake to find they're outside his posh condo and a bag containing a few of his belongings has already been packed.

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It's on the third night of his generous hospitality that Harvey staggers bleary-eyed into the kitchen for a cold glass of water and starts at seeing a wide awake Mike slowly swinging around on a stool at the breakfast bar, with a tub of vanilla and cookie dough ice-cream melting in his lap, beads of condensation trickling down the sides.

"What are you doing up?" the kid asks, looking up with a spoon hanging from his mouth.

Harvey frowns. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Couldn't sleep," he shrugs, "Old habits are harder to break than I thought."

This concerns him, and he pads over to fill a tumbler with pensive, knitted brows. As he turns the faucet and the fierce sound of gushing water revives the stale air surrounding the pair, he probes, "Do you usually wake up at 3 A.M.?"

"Usually." Mike plunges his spoon back into the frozen container and hacks up another soft chunk. "Besides," he says as he pops it into his mouth and savours it, "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Same here, unfortunately," Harvey grumbles, taking a sip of his water and grimacing at the pale aftertaste of chlorine. He eyes Mike's ice-cream longingly. "Stupid case is bugging the heck out of me."

"You'll figure it out," Mike confidentially tells him.

"Not if I can't sleep, I won't."

He rummages around for a spoon, but Mike holds the tub out of reach.

"What, are we not sharing now?" he asks incredulously. "Worried about germs or something?"

"It's not that," the younger man refutes, "It's just that…are you sure you want to do this? I mean, this stuff is… _addictive_." He rolls the word on his tongue almost resentfully, glaring down at the perfectly innocent-looking tub.

"Gimmie," Harvey demands. Lack of sleep makes him impulsive. "I'll put in double at the gym tomorrow."

Mike shrugs, as if wiping his hands of the whole thing, and hands it over. "Your funeral."

He steals a creamy lump, just to try, and instantly regrets it.

"Damn," Harvey moans around a mouthful, "This stuff is _good_. Why didn't you warn me?"

"I did!" he defends, voice skipping an octave.

The senior partner wipes his lips with the pad of his thumb and evaluates the seemingly harmless white globule. "Now we're both doomed," he despairs.

Mike looks equally glum. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," he mutters, stabbing the frosty carton.

After about ten minutes of late-night snacking later and Harvey decides to break the silence. "So," he begins, voice obstructed by the warmed spoon he twirls between his teeth, "About these things on your mind…"

Now slumped over the countertop with his head pillowed on his arm, Mike peeks over hesitantly. "Yeah?"

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly," he comments candidly, "But I can tell you're not going to let it go, so…"

Mike exhales softly.

He slowly pushes himself up, swipes at his sleepy eyes, groans softly. He looks oddly defeated. "It wasn't just the yelling," Mike eventually confides.

Harvey half-smiles, brown eyes kind. "I sort of figured that."

"Well, I mean, it _was_. But…" he blows out a breath, scrubbing his temples with the heels of his hands and driving the skin forward 'til it crumples as if to chase away something unpleasant. A thought or a headache, either one is entirely possible. "It just brought me back, y'know? When my parents were alive, they would fight _all the time_. I suppose it got me thinking."

On instinct, Harvey moves closer to rub his shoulder consolingly. "About the what ifs?" he deduces.

"Mostly." Mike bites his cheek and shuffles his jaw. "I can't help but wonder if it was always destined to turn out badly. If they'd lived, would they have stayed together? Would our family slowly have fallen apart? I can't help but ponder the possibilities. My brain won't shut up about it."

"Either way," Harvey answers gently, patting his back, "You'll never know."

"Yeah," he agrees quietly, breathing out bit by bit, "Guess I won't."

Harvey frowns.

Much as he tries to hide it, it's clear that Mike is hurting and he needs something to take his mind off…well, everything. But more importantly, he needs to _sleep_.

 _Hmm…_ Harvey thinks for moment. Perhaps he's the man for the job? After all, he and Mike share an easy comfortably with each other that has been beneficial on more than one occasion when Harvey needs the pup to cool it. On the days when he's super hyper, or on edge, and needs to wind down, take a break. It's simple, really.

One last scheme. One last time to be sneaky.

"Well…" he murmurs carefully, weighing every word, "Saying as we're up…Do you wanna watch the Godfather?"

Mike instantly grins, as if someone pressed a button to activate his most brilliant smile.

"Should we?" he asks. _Is that wise?_

He's uncertain, but definitely not against the idea.

"I dunno."

"Do we dare?"

Harvey smirks, his sudden sense of mischievousness working in his favour.

"I think we do."

Only ten minutes later and they're both sound asleep, TV on low in the backdrop, watery colours flickering across their slack faces and a thick blanket wrapped around the slumbering duo as Mike's head cuddles into Harvey's shoulder and Harvey's head lolls against his.

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 _Thanks for reading. Pretty please review? I might have another one of these fluffy one-shots in me, but I need to gain some momentum in order to get it completed._


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